


In the Shaking Night

by Mireille



Series: Under Your Skin [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, OliverPercyImprov list, Written Pre-Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-14
Updated: 2002-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: Marcus rationalizes. Oliver pushes. Angst ensues.





	In the Shaking Night

Marcus was intentionally fifteen minutes late. The note that had been dropped on top of his books in Potions class had said eight o'clock, but he didn't even leave the common room until five after. Let  _him_  wait, wondering if Marcus would be there, or whether he'd finally come to his senses and called an end to it. Let him be the one to seem over-eager.

As for Marcus, he was in no hurry. He hadn't read the note a dozen times, or if he had, it was only because the handwriting would have to improve dramatically to be called a scrawl. He hadn't spent the entire evening looking at the clock in the Slytherin common room, watching the time crawl by in two-minute intervals. Hadn't been half-hard since he'd read the note, thinking about what was going to happen.

He took the first flight of stairs two and three at a time, but slowed his pace after that; if the sound of his footsteps reached the top, he didn't want anyone to think he was in a hurry. This was simply a convenience. Something that would do until a better option presented itself. It wasn't something to look forward to.

And to make sure that he made that fact perfectly clear, Marcus paused for another minute or two at the door before going out to the open observation area that made up most of the upper section of the astronomy tower.

"I thought you weren't going to show up."

There were no torches here, but there was enough moonlight that he could see Oliver on one of the low benches, his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around himself.

"And what if I hadn't?"

Oliver got up, crossing the distance between them in a few strides. "Just making conversation." He put a hand on Marcus's arm, but Marcus shrugged it off.

"If I wanted to talk, I could have stayed in the warm." Not that the dungeons were that warm, this late in the autumn, but at least there was a fire and no wind.

He got harsh-sounding laughter in reply. "Of course, I forgot. We can't  _talk._  What would people think?"

He didn't give a damn about what anyone else would think. What mattered was that talking would make this... He had no idea what it would make this, to be honest, but it would be something different. And this was what he needed it to be: uncomplicated, easy to compartmentalize, to put aside and never think about except when one of them slipped the other a folded bit of parchment. Something to never,  _ever_  mention, even to one another. Even to himself.

Talking was for friends, and he and Oliver hadn't ever been friends. They'd never been much of anything, in fact--rivals, on the Quidditch pitch at least, but beyond that, they'd mostly ignored each other. Until this year. Until this, whatever this was.

He didn't even remember how it had started, what they'd said, what he'd thought at the time; he only remembered an empty classroom and the way Oliver's hands felt on his skin. And now--

Now he still didn't know what he thought. He usually tried not to think about it at all, tried to focus on Quidditch and homework and goofing off with his friends--things that were normal, things that made sense, things that didn't involve dark, hungry eyes that seemed to follow him everywhere.

He'd started noticing that a week or two ago; every now and then, he'd feel that prickling at the back of his neck that usually meant someone was staring at you, but when he'd turn around... Oliver would be studying, or talking to one of the other Gryffindors, or something else completely innocent. Not looking at him. Except it felt like Oliver could see through him with his back turned and his eyes shut, or something, and that was another thing that didn't make sense.

That would matter to him in an hour or so, but right now was not the time for making sense. Right now he was leaning against the door to the storage area, and Oliver was shrugging and saying, "Fine, then. Whatever you want," in a toneless voice.

Marcus chose to take him at his word, grabbing the front of Oliver's robes and pulling him closer. Oliver tensed for a moment, closing his eyes, but then he reached for Marcus, pulling his shirt collar open so that he could bite down on that spot between neck and shoulder that never failed to make Marcus almost instantly hard, and Oliver's hand was under his shirt, leaving scratch marks on his back, and Oliver was pressed against him, one lean thigh sliding maddeningly against his cock, and really, making sense was overrated.

It wasn't cold anymore. If anything, he was too warm, with Oliver's body against his and Oliver's hands leaving trails of fire along his nerves. Strong fingers traced the outline of his erection, and he bit back a moan.

"Like that, do you?" Oliver said, not waiting for an answer before undoing Marcus's trousers, and then that too-warm hand squeezed the base of his cock, stopping just short of pain.

Marcus dug his fingers into Oliver's back, trying not to beg him for more. "I certainly don't come up here for the company."

Oliver grinned and began to move his hand slowly up and down Marcus's cock. "Then I'd better make it worth your while."

Marcus closed his eyes, letting himself focus on the feeling of Oliver stroking him. It didn't matter that this was Oliver Wood; what mattered was the heated touch of a hand on his cock, not dark eyes and a wicked smile and a voice that somehow managed to set the all the nerves in his body on edge. He didn't care about Oliver, didn't  _want_  him, didn't think about him--not ever; but most emphatically did  _not_  think about Oliver Wood when he jacked off, not even that one time right after he'd spent all of Care of Magical Creatures with nothing better to do than study Oliver's back.

This was just convenience, just because even Oliver Wood was better than his own hand, just because they  _could_. It had  _nothing_  at all to do with needing Oliver. Nothing to do with needing anyone, because despite what his father thought, Marcus had been listening to all those lectures he'd got as a kid, and he knew that  _need_  could be turned against you. And needing someone as unsuitable as Oliver Wood would give him so many weak spots that he might as well just throw himself off the tower now.

And then rational thought dissolved into a string of nonsense--obscenities and broken syllables and incoherent moans--and if, amongst the gibberish, one or two words might have strayed into forbidden territory, they'd never be noticed, or, if they were, could be explained away. ~ _Love that, keep doing that, please don't ever stop doing that_...why, what did you think I meant? Don't be fucking stupid...~

He was dimly aware that Oliver was studying his face as he came, but the rush of sensation blurred out all of his other concerns, at least until the shaking had passed and he was left feeling uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed by Oliver's intense gaze.

A pleading sound escaped from deep in Oliver's throat; his eyes were wild and almost completely black, and when Marcus finally fumbled Oliver's trousers open, he arched into Marcus's touch as though he had never wanted anything more. Marcus lightly trailed one finger along the length of Oliver's erection, feeling him shudder and gasp, before slicking his hand with pre-come and beginning to pump Oliver's cock. Oliver's moans--low and throaty and filled with unabashed need--were getting Marcus hard again; he hoped the showers would be empty when he got back to the dungeons.

He couldn't look at Oliver's face, there was something remote and pained in the way Oliver never took his eyes off him, as though what Marcus was giving him was everything he'd ever wanted, and nothing like enough. So Marcus looked away, pretended he couldn't see any of it, because really, it was none of his concern.  _Oliver_  was none of his concern.

All too soon, it was over; Oliver melted bonelessly against him, mouth pressed against the hollow of Marcus's throat, as close to a kiss as either of them had ever dared allow. He could feel Oliver's breath, still a bit ragged, against his skin, just as he could feel, everywhere they touched, faint tremors still running through the lithe body. Marcus shifted position a bit to better distribute Oliver's weight; he wound up with his cheek resting against soft dark hair. He closed his eyes for a second, allowing himself the brief luxury of not caring what they must look like. ~So what if I like this? I've never argued that I don't enjoy touching him. Being touched by him. It still doesn't mean anything.~

Oliver's breathing slowed and steadied, and Marcus lifted his head before Oliver could comment on his moment of weakness. "We should go," he said.

"Do we have to?" Oliver murmured, the words vibrating against Marcus's skin.

"Third year Ravenclaws have astronomy at nine-thirty." ~And I want to shower and change and pretend I was anywhere but here.~

Oliver took a few steps backward, sighing a little. "Then you're probably right. We should go." They were quiet for a minute as they refastened clothing and tried to make themselves presentable enough to go back to their dormitories without attracting attention. Then Oliver said, "I hear you're pretty decent in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Marcus shrugged. "I do all right." Of course he did. He was a Flint, and you didn't grow up surrounded by the Dark Arts without learning how to protect yourself from the machinations of your enemies--or, even more likely, the carelessness of your allies.

"Well, I don't. Percy Weasley's been helping me, but he's Head Boy this year, and he's spending most of his time with his girlfriend anyway, and we've got the NEWTs this spring..." He grinned ruefully. "And I'm well and truly fucked unless I find someone to help me."

He almost gave in. It wasn't as though merely agreeing to help another student--even if that other student was a Gryffindor and his rival on the Quidditch field, even if he was all lean muscle and too-knowing smiles and hands that burned wherever they touched Marcus--was anything damning. He'd worked on a Charms essay with Lucy Roarke from Hufflepuff last month, and no one had thought anything about it.

But this was different. This was dangerous. This was the first step toward--he didn't know what, but he knew it was something to be avoided. He saw Oliver in the few classes they had together, played against him on the Quidditch field, passed him in the corridors. That was enough. If they started spending time together beyond what was absolutely necessary, then it would be harder to keep  _this_  separate from their real lives. And it had to be separate, because Marcus was not going to listen to the jeers and catcalls in the common room if anyone found out about this and decided it mattered, and he damn sure wasn't going to face his father if--when--word got to him. It wasn't as though Oliver meant anything to him, or he to Oliver, for that matter, so it simply wasn't worth the trouble.

And the look on Oliver's face when he shook his head was not disappointment, or if it was, it didn't make him feel even slightly guilty. "Why would I help you, Wood? I don't even like you."

"What would it hurt?"

"Nothing. But I don't see the need to spend any more time with you than I have to."

"Think I'll give the game away? You think you're so damned irresistible that I won't be able to keep my hands to myself?" He was smiling as he said it, but the edges were sharp, and there was mockery in his voice.

"If you want them to stay at the ends of your arms." He wasn't worried about that; there was simply nothing to interest him about the proposition. The chance to spend hours in Oliver's company without attracting curiosity, to accidentally brush against him in the guise of reaching for a book, to exchange furtive touches under the library table--they held no appeal. None.

Oliver's expression hardened. "Pathetic," he muttered.

Against his better judgment--but what wasn't, these days?--Marcus asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You. Me.  _This_ ," he added bitterly.

Marcus shrugged. "There's no reason it has to go on." There was nothing wrong, he told himself; if this ended, if his days no longer involved hasty caresses in empty classrooms, if his nights no longer held the promise of pale skin and strong hands--so much the better. Otherwise, it ran the risk of becoming complicated later on, anyway.

"Isn't there?" Oliver took a half-step forward. "I wonder what you'd do if--" He didn't finish the sentence, only kept looking at Marcus with that strangely raw look in his eyes. For a moment, Marcus had the curious feeling that Oliver was about to lean forward and kiss him; he tensed, preparing to push the other boy away, but then Oliver's expression changed again, to near-blankness, and he shook his head. "God, I don't know why I bother."

Marcus forced himself to look in the opposite direction until he heard the door close behind Oliver. He listened to Oliver's footsteps until they had faded away completely, and then waited another five minutes. It would never do for anyone to see the two of them together; they would be certain to give the event a significance that it didn't--couldn't--have. Might try to draw conclusions about who Marcus Flint was and how to get at him, and he didn't want to have to correct their notions for them.

This was getting to be too much trouble. ~Next time,~ he thought, straightening his robes, ~I'm tearing the damned note up. He can wait up here all bloody night if he wants to, but he'll be waiting alone.~

If he said the words with enough conviction, it might erase all the times he'd said them before and changed his mind--or worse yet, weakened sufficiently to slip a note of his own to Oliver.

It was getting colder; he shivered, slipping the loose sleeves of his robes over his hands to warm them, and started down the stairs.

***

That night, in the cool green silence of the dorm, he dreamed that Oliver hadn't walked away; instead, he pinned Marcus against the wall and kissed him, fevered kisses inviting--demanding--Marcus to kiss back. When he finally did, Oliver went on kissing him, and in the pauses when they drew breath, whispered promises--honey-sweet and as dangerous as any potion ever brewed--against Marcus's cheek, until Marcus had no choice but to confess every stifled longing, every hint of emotion that he'd ever locked away in the hope of making it disappear.

And once Marcus had spread out the last shadowed corner of his heart for Oliver's inspection, once he was warily awaiting the moment when Oliver shook his head in disgust and walked away, Oliver only smiled, and kissed him again.

He awoke in a tangle of sweaty sheets, insisting to himself that it had been a nightmare.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


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